Phantasmic
by AvaleeDarling
Summary: Metalocalypse has begun and life as we know it is over. How will the human race survive?   Well they probably won't.
1. So thats what happened

The metalocolypse has begun. The citites overrun with monsters and creatures thought to be stories, streets run with blood and carnage fills the hearts of the survivors. Just when the world thought it couldn't be worse, The Devil shows his horns. This is one girls story of survival.

_there are no pairings of any sort (slash, smut, boy love, hentai, yaoi, whatever). no mary-sues either (and i don't actual hate dethklok) also my first metalfic_

_xxxx Prologue_

I remember when I used to be one of the non-believers; one of the people who _didn't_ actually believe in the whole 2012 apocalypse. We've all had to endure one of those bizarre conversations, with one lunatic who actually planed their whole life around it. The crazy people weeping and sobbing about how the earth was going to rain fire, the water would run with blood and aids and how a huge asteroid was going crash into the planet tearing it in two just as Jesus is seen riding down on a flaming chariot ripping out the beating hearts of sinners and eating them.

(I might be over exaggerating on the 2012 crazies, but it doesn't matter; they're dead now)

I used to look at the superstitious freaks with a critical eye. I mean, there is no way the world would just end that quickly, everything our Earth does is a slow process. The creation of it took billions of years so the end of it should take almost just as long, right? There would be obvious signs leading up to grand finale, like California finally starting to break off, or maybe hurricanes forming in Antarctica, or all the volcanoes in Iceland going up at the same time.

And since nothing that outrageous was happening, I just ignored the movies and propaganda. I never once thought to look towards anything that was _humanly_ possible. And no not just the pollution thing, even with that as a variable, it would still take a couple thousand years for us to destroy the atmosphere completely, so I wasn't worried about that. Therefore, the idea of humans causing the world-ending apocalypse didn't add up correctly in my head.

. . . I was _stupid._

The end of the world as we knew it didn't –BANG! happen in a night (or week or even in month). It took years of preparation, but no one seemed to notice until the fruits of that preparation started to ripen. By then it was too late. I guess I turned a blind eye to the fact that a single metal band was slowly becoming the most powerful force in the world? I don't know _how_ I could be so stupendously oblivious . The signs were everywhere. _Literally, every-where!_

It was as if a day could not be complete without the band's name spoken on someone's lips. You couldn't walk anywhere without running into one of their posters, or having some crazed fan start screaming about how much they loved them; you couldn't even turn on a damn T.V. without hearing about them. It didn't matter what channel either. You could've been watching Dora the Explorer and even she had references toward the metal band.

Dora: Can you stand up and show me where to find The Hatred-Copter? Go on everybody stand up! Sta – and up!

Boots: You found it! _Brutal_!

Dora: Can you say brutal in Spanish?

But hey, I was a kid, and kids are oblivious to what's in front of their faces.

I watched wave after wave of Kloketeers wipe out the few loyal soldiers left (they had decided they were better off dying in the line of duty then live in a world ruled by _them_. I wished I could've joined them).

I watched their OFC, Charles Offdenson, single handedly assassinate General Crotier and have _our military _(what was left of it)cloak their heads in black pointed hoods and burn the that sickening gears symbol onto themselves. The _whole world_ watched as Nathan Explosion (my ex-favorite) blew the heads of our Nation's leaders right the fuck off, execution style.

I think I blocked out the horrorics of it.

I don't remember being on the brink of hysteria as I watched that behemoth of a man point a .45 at the back of Obama's head. The gray painted skin of the behemoth's muscles had shined a sickly blue in the light, the skin of a dead man, but if you asked me that I would deny knowing such a thing.

I never heard the begging; that terrible wet gurgling filling Obama's throat with such absolute hoplessness. Or Nathan's subzero response of, "It's time to get off your high horse you muslim dildo," that cut like jagged ice.

I didn't see the hand squeeze (not pull) the trigger to the gun.

I swear I never saw Nathan kick the first family into the wolf pit.

And I actually couldn't hear their screams on account of the crowd surrounding the whole "ceremony" was cheering to loud.

DETH-KLOK! DETH-KLOK! DETH-KLOK!

Like they were our _fucking saviors_. . .

Even as I watched the carnage, I was in denial. It was just too much. . . too pathetic . . . too pathetic to believe.

It repulsed me how willing people were, willing give up their lives, willing to do _anything_, just because it was Dethklok.

Lord knows my parents didn't believe it. At first, my father's only response was "We're moving to Canada," then they took over Canada and he ran out of ideas.

It could have been God himself, and we would have told him to "piss the fuck off" as we pointed a nuke at him. But it wasn't God that was being crowned as our "divine" rulers (and I use that term so very loosely), it was Dethklok, so everything was just honky dory.

Screw the fact that they have obliterated whatever resources we had left on the planet and are forcing people to turn cannibalistic. Screw the fact that most of them can't even read! But its Dethklok.

The weakness and all out stupidity made my family the ruthless people we are today.

Stupid people were dangerous. Stupid people got other people killed. It was just best to kill off the stupid people.

No mercy could be affored. Especially from me.

My parents had it easy because of their ages and the remarkable fact that they are still alive and kicking ass, most people just stayed out of their way. It wasn't easy to be in their middle ages and still alive. They ended gaining a very scarry reputation.

I suppose it's people way of giving them props. I won't try to gut you in your sleep and steal all your shit because I respect that you were enough of a hard-ass even in your late thirties to survive the revolution. Kudos to you buddy, you earned your messily life in my eyes.

_I'm_ not so lucky though.

When Dethklok started their Global Domination Tour (Yes, that is what they called it), I was a mere sixth grader. By the time they had killed off all our leaders, I was a freshmen in high school. I would've graduated, but my school was compromised as a house of worship for Dethklok (like the needed and more of _those_). I had just turned sixteen when shit really started to hit the fan.

We were losing resources fast and people were bugging. Riots started to break out. Me being so young meant that I had to fight harder than the rest. I had to prove that I was strong enough to survive and not just some worthless little kid that just took up food and air. If I wanted to keep breathing in that polluted air, I had to do a damn good job of making it known I was not one to fuck with.

I was already an angry kid, not explosive burn the school down kind of angry, but I had a foul temper. People knew when I was pissed because there was always a line of kids behind me broken and begging for mercy. If someone pushed my buttons the right way, I wouldn't hesitate on punching their lights out. If you tried to spread some seriously nasty rumors about me, I would make a show of publically Spartan kicking your ass to the bottom of the social caste system. I guess I was a bit of a badass. Those little vicious outburst were rare and far between though.

Then the riots started exploding in all the cities and towns. Even in the harmless suburbs that I lived in experienced them. It was like a domino effect. When the food started to run low the rich folks got super stingy which pissed the middle class and poor off. The poor folk went from begging for food to stealing and finally people were desperate enough to kill for a carton of milk. The rich folks caught onto to that strategy real quick and started hiring bodyguards (ex-mercenaries) for protection. If anyone even tried to set foot in their neighborhood, they got gunned down to slush on the pavement.

Therefore, with no food in the stores to steal and no rich to rob, society as a whole lost it. It turned into an all out war.

All of a sudden, no one cared if there was a 99.9 percent chance that you wouldn't survive point five seconds in the wealthy part of town. As long as there was still that one hundredth of a percent, they were going to try. Troops of angry starved citizens started attacking all the rich communities at once, bombarding those money-heavy-pocket bastards with everything they had.

AK 47's were passed around like candy, not to mention the grenades and the homemade tear gas (that shit burned!). Mr. Ines (some sixty year old snowbird), made some jaw drops when he oh so casually pulled out a damn bazooka (then had the audacity to toss me a strange look when he got me sharpening my swords).

The battle was bloody – _God_ it was bloody. It was the bloodiest thing you could have imagined. So many corpses were strewn about that walking through the streets was nearly impossible. Sloshing throw the gore was maddening. There was just . . . so _much_. I never thought I would be able to eat meat ever again. I still wince every time I hear squishing noises. With the rampant death happening on both sides, no one really knew who was winning. Towards the end people where just killing each other to kill each other. The less mouths to feed the better, I suppose. There was no such thing as social class anymore. The poor had robbed (or killed) the wealthy until there was nothing left but other poor people. A small family unit doing relatively better might pop up every now and then, but it never lasted. Some miserable souls would find them and kill them eventually.

My family wasn't an exception to this. We weren't doing as badly as the others (hell, we had all of our limbs; we were doing great!). Most kids my age were orphans struggling to support themselves or younger family members as well (or dead, it was a popular choice). I still had my parents and my sister (though, all of my friends have died and so have the majority of my family), but I wasn't alone like _them_.

And we were paying for it.

It was because of our capability we had to become ruthless. It was because we could fight that we had to. Well, as I said, me more than the rest. The _others_ would target me, hoping that I was the weakest becuase I was small, but they just didn't understand how much a weapon my rage was. I didn't have to fight myself. I just let go. And I could do some serious damage in just letting go.

_xxxx xxxx_

As I walk my way down my decimated street with a heavy satchel over my shoulder, fresh blood on my knuckles and short sword, and a slight pep in my step, I hum an old tune I almost forgot.

"_Na Na Na Na nananaanana Na,_" I was _really_ surprised I was being this bold. Dethklok had banded any music (but their own) from being played, sung, or hummed publically. The first time I ever saw this law in act was only a few days after they had complete control over everyone and everything. There was a girl I knew from the neighborhood singing a lullaby to her baby brother on the street corner. A Kloketeer just walked right up and shot her in the throat. I'm not sure if he killed the baby or not; I had walked away. Well, whatever. I was pretty certain I could handle a Kloketeer or two. After all, I just took down a seven man street gang for the pig shoulder in my bag.

I continued singing My Chemical Romance without fear, belting out my favorite part, "_Oh remember when you were madman! Thought you was Batman!"_ I got some weird looks from the children beggars and this one terminally ill guy waiting to die on the side walk. Even Teddy (the loveable cannibal and an old classmate of mine), who had been chewing on some poor souls arm at the time, gave me a questioning stare. But I didn't stop.

Not even when a Kloketeer started making a beeline for me.

I noticed the certain kind of swag this hooded jerk walked with and new at once, that he was a pervert. I noticed the little way he tried to move all stealth-like and low even though he was out in the open and I was _watching_ him walk towards me. I also noticed the stupid rape face underneath his hood (which was torn, badly, probably from the last girl her tried to molest).

I just kept on with my happy tune until he was only about a foot away and stood in my path, "Excuse me sir, but can I help you with something?" Most of the time i would take the roof tops to avoid running into Klokers. They tended to be insane. But today was good day and I felt like killing some of my oppressors.

The creeper-teer just licked his lips and grunted out, "Was that ah non-dethklok song I was hearin yuh sing?" He even had a creepy voice. It sounded like a he smoked way too many cigarettes and washed it done with some battery acid. Who told him that was hot?

"Why yes it was," I smiled all cute and cheery in my best Golly-Gee-Willikers voice, "Would you like to join in? There is always room for more singers when it comes to My Chem.," I forced the corniest sounding giggle I could muster out just to add the right amount of sarcastic ditsy-ness.

"I'm sorry, but no," Was he actually believing that I was some stupid little girl?

He licked his cracked lips again and leaned his face real close to mine. To close for my comfort, but obliviously not close enough for his.

Icky, his rancid breath smelt like death and fish, yet not actual dead fish? Hmm, disconcerting,"Do you know what the punishment is for that kind of traitorous act?"

Blech! I seriously wanted to puke one this guy's shoes. His breath smelt worst than that half-dead guy I just walked past. Do not even get me started on his body odor. It reminded me of Teddy's (the guy that wallows in decaying corpses, yeah that guy), but . . . so much . . . _worse_.

I feigned innocence while choking down bile, "Why, no sir, I don't?"

He smiled. Oh, please don't lean closer. Please don't lean closer. Ugh, he leaned closer! "Its death."

I made an "o" shaped expression with my mouth and over dramatically placed my fingers over my lips. Sort of like those "Oh Dear!" looks that you would expect from _I Love Lucy_, "Oh gosh no! I had no _idea_!" I gasped, full of amusement, not even trying to hide my sarcasm.

The creeper-teer's smile just got wider, "Well you know," he circled behind me. Gag, "I could just let you off on a warning," here it comes, "But if I do that favor for you," is he smelling my hair? Gross! "I would expect one in return," there it is.

I do a not so fake shiver of repulsion, though I'm pretty sure he thinks it's in fear or (if he was really fucking stupid) in joy, "But what could you possibly want from me," I squeak.

"I'm sure you could think of a few things," Please dear lord back away from ear before it rots off.

"But I'm only fifteen," I'm short so I can lie like that. If he was a good patrol man, like he should be, he would know that no current fifteen year old would've been able to survive the Rich against Poor wars. It's enough of a miracle that _I'm_ still alive.

"All the more reason why I shouldn't execute you," _Really_, he was a pedophile too? Where did they find _such_ upstanding citizens?

I silently decide that I'm going to stab him. A lot.

I quickly whirl around so I'm looking the creeper in the face (to my misfortune), my short sword already buried deep into his stomach, the chain still swinging. I love the feel of a person's weight around my blade and the slight fighting push of flesh when entering. I understood why guys were so sex crazed. Shoving something long and pointed into another person was great!

My lips pull back into a snarl, baring my teeth like a wild cat, "Thanks, but I don't think I'm going to need your generous offer," his face was priceless. His jaw was hanging open in a "how dare you" "is this possible?" mix and I was loving every minute of it. Man, if only I still had my camera. I would put that picture on my wall of Awesome Moments of Alara History.

I pull out the short blade of the creeper-teer's innards and turn and walk away like nothing ever occurred. After a second or two I finally hear a sickeningly splat and a **whump** and I know some of his innards (now outards) spilled out as his body fell to the floor. My stomached lurched, but I forced myself to keep walking. Flashes of the wars were spinning in my mind. I shake myself like a dog, trying to throw the memories off of me.

Killing would be so much easier if there wasn't a body left over.

As I continue my short track home, I contemplate if I should clean my blade now or later. I decide now would be better, only because I hate that look that mom gives me when she sees the new blood. She hasn't completely lost the morals of the old days, which I'm thankful for.

I take out my well-used handkerchief from the only pocket on my jeans that isn't ripped and swipe the blade clean in one swift movement. I do it a few more times just because I wanted my sword to shine. It's good to know that there is at least one beautiful thing left in this fucked up world.

I shrug my pack off and take a seat on the corner of my street. I can still see the Kloketeer I just killed and choose to ignore the body while I stare at my blade. I read the whispy message my Grandpa engraved into the blade.

_He who has Why to live can bear almost any How_

The silver writing catching the light in a picturesque way. The reflective light flaring and flashing like a silver beacon calling out to me. This sword spoke to me in ways a person cannot. It knew me better than any other and understood me. Understood why I needed it so badly and it never judged me for my dependency.

The saying seemed fitting for this current time. Creepy how Grandpa always knew something like this would happen. Luckily, he died before any of this came about. Even though he would be in his early sixities now, I am positive he would have kicked some major ass.

Grandpa was always cool that way. He would've been able to fulfill his ultimate dream of becoming a Bad Ass Samurai.

If he hadn't had gotten sick, _man_, we would've been unstoppable. I'm no sword master, not like him. I figured out some basic moves on the fly, but I mostly just go on instincts (instincts work well with me). I tend to think of my sword more like a claw. I swipe and slash the same way a ferral cat would; with accuracy and raw power. But _Gramps_, he was one _Bad_ moe-fo. _He_ would have shown me the skill it took to use this blade and I would have happily been his sidekick.

Grandpa was able to teach me one thing about my sword though. He made it himself and it took him almost four years to finish. It more like an obsession than a project for him. He would zone out for hours destroying and rebuilding the damn thing. It was never perfect enough, there was always some minut faw that throw off his whole game and make him restart. When he finally felt finished with it I had just been pushed out into this wretched world. That was the only reason why he left it me.

He was always super superstitious and thought it was a sign from above(?) that I was meant to have the sword. He even got it blessed and everything.

In his words, and I quote, "The moment I was done re-sharpening the blade I got a call from your father. It was still in my hand when I picked up the receiver and I heard him screaming hysterically about his new baby girl. What he was most excited about was the fact you had his eyes, the same dark blue. And the same color of the blade (too bad my eyes changed). It was fate. You were meant to have this sword for a reason," and Gramps was right.

I've used almost every other sword he had left to the family and none of them can even compare to this one I. It feels almost like an extension of my soul. Even with all its cool complimentary colors, the sword screams rage. It matched me. It was my weapon and it held my life in its hilt.

I never walk out of my house without it; I just don't feel complete. It would also be a serious question to my sanity if I were to ever (_ever_) leave myself unarmed. That's . . . suicidal! And after all the fighting I have had to do, there is no way in hell I would ever make that stupid mistake.

I continue to hum as I twirl and flip the sword about, the chain clanking and jingling. I know I should be booking it to get this pig back to my house before someone bigger and badder than me just happened to walk by, but I wasn't quite ready yet. It was only noon and I already had finished my share of collecting, and Mom and Dad didn't like us leaving the house unless it was absolutely necessary. Which is completely understandable, but I still wasn't ready to kook myself up in my house; the blood on my knuckles wasn't even dry yet.

I start throwing and catching the sword and then start flipping it in the air, always careful to never catch the blade and only the hilt. Just to burn some time. Every time I got it, I would throw it up a bit harder, making the blade spin faster and go higher. The light danced around the it creating a halo and everytime I threw it the halo got larger. Watching it like this was mesmorizing and I couldn't stop myself if I wanted to.

I was so enthralled in it that I started catching it behind my back.

Catch hilt. Throw. Flip. Catch hilt. Throw. Flip. Catch hilt. Throw. Flip. I made it my mantra.

I was never one to let my gaurd down, not even in my sleep. My mother told me that even in my sleep I would fight. I would sit straight up in bed, my eyes close and my breathing slow, but if the slightest noise was made (it was usually a lizard or forg that got into the house), four shurikens would be found in the wall the next morning. I would never wake up, but I have yet to miss any of my targets.

So when the black fairy pooled itself behind, its darkness reaching and grabbing out to me like greedy tentacales, I was fully cuaght off gaurd. The darkness was actaully able to skim itself against me before I had my blade at the creatures throat. I knew that slicings a dark fairy's throat wouldn't do much but stall it, but it was better than nothing.

Just when I was about to push my blade through its porcelain skin, I stopped myself.

The creatures laugh filled my thoughts, like the clang of chimes. The sound reverberating through me and making my whole body go still.

I caught sight of a fury of red, the shine of pearly canines, and a shimmer of perfection.

"Vermillion, you ass."

_ Hope you guys enjoyed, i was just trying something new. Reviews are awesome and critquing is always welcomed and try not to flame_

_I promise the next chapter will actually have the boys in it, well mostly offdenson, but still they are on their way_


	2. So here he comes

_Dammit Vermillion._

Mother always warned me that the fey were never to be trusted. They were beautiful and cunning and would talk you into killing yourself if you weren't careful. She was right; I had seen many a moron die at the hands of fairies, purely out of their own stupidity. They were always too distracted by the fey's magical perfection to notice that they were being drowned or fed to some kind of plant.

This is why I was just going to stab and _run_.

But itwas my mentor so it was okay.

The fey was doubled over on his knees behind me, "Ah! You should have seen your face!" He barked out, overjoyed and downright giddy. Vermillion's strange laugh, metallic and echoing, bubble into the air filling my ears like water.

I sheathed my blade and narrowed my eyes at him. I didn't like the fact that I had so easily let my guard down. It was a rooky mistake that often gotten you killed, "Not_ cool_, I was this close from stabbing you!" I hold up my thumb and index finger and put an inch of space between them.

I never keep company with anyone, let alone fairies, but Mill was different.

He was . . . entertaining? Dangerously so.

Also, people backed off when Vermillion was around, no one really liked getting in between the fey and their pets (that's what they called humans that worked with these glittery freaks).

"Yes, but you did not," he smiled, transforming his angular face, his pale violet skin shimmering in the light. Damn fairies and their perfections. I _should've_ stabbed him just to see his face, but then I would've had to listen to his bitching.

_I cannot believe you! Blah blah blah! You got blood all over my new robes!_ And so on and so forth.

His smile drops and he gets a serious tone, "Come, it is time to continue your lessons," he levitates into a standing position with one sift motion. I frown and flip him the bird, tromping towards my house. His serious face breaks after only a few moments.

He follows me, giggling and making rhymes about the scenery, his feet never hitting the ground.

_Such_ a fucking fairy!

I throw my front door open and sling my satchel full of goodies across the kitchen floor waiting for the fey to follow me in, but he's still waiting in the doorway.

When I look back to see what's taking him so long I see he's just standing there, his lean form unnaturally still and straight. His feet are finally on the floor, I note, and he was wearing his armor for once. It shimmered and shined, the light moving like a slippery fish. Usually he only wore his armor when the Unseelie had him out on a mission.

"What is wrong with you now?" I snort.

His expression is a mask of indifference and impatience making him look like the porcelain solider that he is. I hated it when he gave me that stare. It looked dead, but alive, and it freaked me right the fuck out, but I force myself to keep eye contact.

After a moment it cracks and he giggles like a fool, "You have to invite me in _Meus Ame_t¹," he flashes his long canines at me and blows a kiss. I flinch ready to dodge incase it's a spell, but it's blank.

I let go a breath I didn't know I was holding, "You're _not_ a vampire. You're a pansy," he pouts at me in mock hurt and slams the door ruefully like an annoyed child, making some of his dust fly off and swirl around the room. How dare I not play along.

The dust wafted around the corner turning and swirling like a great cosmic galaxy, sparkling and twinkling like the brightest of stars. _Great_, that corner is going to glow in the dark now.

"Watch the pixie shit," I grunt as I shoulder past him to my kitchen counter. He schools his face into a frown and his eyes gleam a dark red. Uh oh, I think I just pushed a sparkly button.

"Do. Not. Compare me. To that wonderland. _Slut!_," It's amazing how over dramatic he was.

Mill wasn't all too fond of pixies. For him, they were the equivalent to horny mosquitoes, with their annoying buzzing wings and weak little lust charms. Apparently they would screw a pile of feces if they were bored enough (his words not mine).

I watch him for a moment, amused. He always reminded me of fire, flowing along trail of gasoline, flaring and dimming.

He flicks his long red tresses off his shoulder in a dramatic fashion and struts my way (a few inches off the floor) with his nose in the air. His red hair flies around his head, catching a halo of gold light, moving like flame.

Vermillion's tall form slips its way to my kitchen, effortlessly jumps onto my counter, and crosses his legs into the lotus position likes it is the most comfortable thing in the world. Every movement about him was to graceful and so hypnotizing, like quick silver.

He watches me from the corner of his eye, "Like what you see human?"

I make a show of rolling my eyes back and gagging, "As if I want something that reminds me of glitter on a stick."

He makes a _humph_, "How about a quick review of what we practiced earlier," He cracks a smile and blows another kiss my way. This one packed up with his sparkling magic, "counter attacking spells."

I see it coming at me at break neck speeds and nearly dodge it, but it grazes my cheek, "Dammit Mill!" now I have shit load of glitter on my face, "That spell doesn't _have_ a counter attack!"

"This I know," his metallic laugh fills the room. His eyes dance a pale pink and I swear to God that I'm just going to clobber him in the face.

I clench my fingers tight and get my muscles ready to move, but I release the aggression with a grunt. Damn.

If I hit him, then that would be breaking that cursed pact; he would totally fuck my shit up, "How about we focus on spells that you actually can fight off."

"What fun is that?"

Fucking fairy . . .

Charles Offdenson was a genius. He was able to take five of the most bull-headed-ignorant-sons-a-bitches and turn them into the strongest force the world has ever known. He was a financial savant and had a tongue as sharp as his sword. He talked the Devil himself into a chokehold contract and spat right in Death's eye without a second of hesitation. When the fairies started to act up, he was the one that forced them into the blood pact. Invulnerable immortals his left ass cheek. No one was completely invulnerable. Not even him, The Great OFC.

No one could even _try_ to look down on him or his mass empire.

No One.

Yet . . . there was one.

Well there was more than _one_; of course, he was sure there were many who were not _completely_ satisfied with the world as it is. Even if this were a Utopia (the one that humanity has been fighting to reach since the very beginning), there would be a handful of naysayers. It was inevitable.

This statistic he could handle. He could handle the plagues of diseases and he could handle the famine and he certainly could handle these few unhappy citizens. Except that one.

These others, they were silent, too terrified of their Overlords to even _try_ to step out of line, but this _one_. Ah, this _one_ little girl! All by on her own, just decided that it was okay to take justice, Offdenson's justice, into her little hands. It would not have bothered him if she was just killing off some useless Kloketeers every now and then, making it a lot easier for him to trim the fat. It was the fact that she had the gall, the disrespectful audacity to challenge his throne, his way of _life_ even, by going after his Elite Patrol. And using magic, _of all things_, to do so!

Oh no no, she was just pushing _all_ of his wrong buttons.

Offdenson sat in his large leather office chair, his face drowned in the warm red light of the setting sun. His left hand holding his brandy and his right thrumming at his desk slowly. He sat himself back, basking in the dimming light, contemplating his next move.

In the twilight light, others could easily notice his no longer human eyes. The pin prick pupils dilating in thick slashes and shifting with each thought. A perk from his contract.

"Number-360, how goes the background check on, uh, Ms. Chillings?"

He had already had a handful done on her, but they all proved to be incorrect. The ages all mismatched, her family information incorrect, and her bios all wrong. Most of the pictures weren't even of her. This girl was skilled in what she did. She kept her tracks covered to the point of nonexistence, a feat not easily done and one that he applauded.

"Better sire, we finally got a shot of her full face," the Kloketeer slide the photo across the massive oak desk into his masters reach. It showed a zoomed in, slightly pixilated profile of a young girl with piercing green eyes throwing a sword in the air, "A security camera caught it earlier today. It's the first one we found were her hood was off."

Offdenson observed her features memorizing every detail. She was probably in her late teens, maybe twenty. The focus in her eye was unsettling, she was far too confident for someone in her position. The simple flick of her wrist showed she knew how to use the sword she was currently tossing and the fact that there is a dead Kloketeer in the background shows how little she cared for the laws of this new world. This girl was dangerous and she knew it.

If it weren't for the fact that she made the one mistake of stepping on his toes, he would've hired her as an elite. He was absolutely going to have to do something about this before it got more out of hand, " Please, uh, send a message to my personal guard," he swirled his brandy in his glass, his gold cufflinks catching the orangey light of smog, "I'm, uh, going for a stroll today."

"You are so lucky you're a god damn fairy," I pant out, prostrate on the ground, with my face mercifully in the dirt.

Mill had sent a _bazillion_ different mental attacks at me at once, apparently my mental shields were lacking. I was able to block the _really_ lethal suggestions, like the suicide attempts, the sexual hazes, and the personality switches, but one of the minor ones slipped by.

I spent the last half hour trying to undo the dance spell he threw in for kicks.

Mill's smile spilt his face, "I had no idea you could move so gracefully _Meus Amet_," he held his slim hand against his mouth holding in his laugh. He knew if he laughed one more time, I would stab him.

"You are getting better," he squeaked out, "That mental counter only took you a third of a time of your last attempt," he sent a sparkling ball of energy at me full force.

I turn on my side and easily stop the spell, containing it within my own hands, then shoot it back tenfold. All without getting up. Physical attacks I could handle any day of the week. So long as you timed yourself right you could stop any, no matter the strength. Or, I could. My physical magic was crazy. I could take down an Ogre if I really wanted, which is impressive from any perspective.

But Vermillion has proved that time and time again that it didn't mean much if my mental barrier was weak. It didn't matter that I could probable stop a stampeding elephant with my hands if a pixy could convince me to jump into a ravine.

Or in this case, dance until I couldn't feel my legs anymore.

The fey only smiled and levitated me off my resting place so that I was a foot away from the floor. My hair forming a curtain around my face and my fingers brushing against the floor limply, "Gee thanks. That makes me feel a ton better."

"Have you been practicing like I said," Mill gently rubs my back, pushing healing magic in, trying to curb my fatigue. I'm grateful until he grabs my ass like the pervert he is.

I groan and try to kick him half-hazardously. I really didn't care anymore, I was just tired and wanted to sleep, "I've been using some simple ones on the local thugs," I pause thinking of how easy it had been in the heat of battle, " and I got a group of elite to feed themselves to the mermaids," I would have went into more detail, but my voice was tired from the supreme exertion I just went through. Using mental magic took a thousand times more energy than physical and I just wanted to lie there undisturbed.

Vermillion sighed and mumbled something incoherent in elf (which was his native tongue) and gently guided my floating form back into the house. Once we enter the household, he dropped me face first on the tile of the kitchen floor, "It was my instructions for you to practice on fairies, not some stupid humans."

"Dick."

"Your Divinity," A Kloketeer with a specialized leather mask cautiously approached the thoughtful Offdenson. When a slight wave encouraged him to speak, he took a careful breath, "your speculations were correct sire. Well, you obviously knew that already. You're never wrong about such things. Anybody with a brain . . ."he stopped. He was rambling and that wasn't a smart move in front of the OFC. The Kloketeers took another breath to calm himself, " The girl is a pet of a fairy," Offdenson raised an eyebrow at the Kloketeers nervous body motions, but nodded for him to finish, "It seems that the fairy she belongs to is Vermillion."

"Vermillion?" Offdenson raised his eyebrows. Well that was a surprise. The Kloketeer nodded his head vehemently. Now he did not expect such a powerful and esteemed fairy behind her tutorship.

Fairies as high up as Vermillion usually didn't keep company with humans, but it did explain a lot. From what that pictured showed, he understood how she attracted the attention of the Unseelie general, "Uh, well it seems we have ourselves a bigger problem then I, uh, thought," his glasses flashed. Vermillion wasn't going to just let him take away his pet. He was going to have to put more caution than what he wanted into this.

"Are my travel preparations complete?" The servant nodded again, "Good. Let's go make a house call."

Mues Amet: (latin) my pet

A/N: There is going to be a lot more of Charles (I hope I didn't make too OOC) in the next chapter and possible a début of the boys. Also some bad ass fairy fights with the elite klokers is going down.

So read and review!


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